


Pen to Paper

by orphan_account



Category: Big Hero 6 (2014)
Genre: M/M, never complete always ongoing, one shot dump since tumblr is scary and I don't want them up there anymore, rated explicit for potential content further on, warnings at the start of each new 'chapter'!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 09:42:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3645615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Checking his head, as it turns out, is lingo for feeling up his scalp, fingers carding through his hair in slow, careful motions as Hiro stares straight ahead and wonders about his life and choices. </p>
<p>There is a vague possibility that this is a bad one.</p>
<p>~*~*<em>one shot collection</em>*~*~</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Do the D.A.N.C.E

**Author's Note:**

> Okay well...this was a prompt given to me in a group google doc, after the whole...tumblr blogs debacle. Everyone who jumped in and out over the course of the night (I think it was something between 12-15 people?) loved it, so huzzah it's here it's staying.
> 
> Dedicated to anyone who lost their blog because you're a darling and deserve to feel good.

* * *

 

**Rating:** Teen

**Warnings:** None

* * *

 

 

Every now and again the urge to make a large playlist and lose himself to it for the next month was a little too paramount. But really, he argued, music was _insane._ If he didn’t make those playlists, if he didn’t repeat those songs a hundred times over, he’d go insane.

 

Or he would argue. If he had anybody to argue with.

 

Instead, he has this. Headphones solidly in place; those big, colorful ones that make you feel like you’re striding right out of the 90s, Hiro makes his way down the street with as little odd motions as possible. Or maybe a couple. A few abrupt little spins, a few beat inspired shuffles of his feet. Laugh and the whole world laughs with you. Dance and- the world gives you an odd look, from time to time.

Whatever. He had better things to do, bigger places to be. Mouthing along to his favorite song (or his favorite of the hour) Hiro nodded his head in appreciation of the bass, fingers tapping the cover of his ipod along to the drums. A step down, and his feet make it from concrete to asphalt, the threat of rain showing in the heavy, grey clouds dimming the sky.

He’s pulled back so violently his headphones don’t survive the journey, flying away and clattering to the ground just like his body- doesn’t. It’s cushioned, just as a truck zips past, horn blaring.

Kind of funny, but Hiro’s sure he was just standing there. On that spot. The one the truck ran over.

“Ow…” A groan of pain reminds him of his cushioned fall, and carefully, he turns his head. Right, it’s a person. A guy, who’s grimacing as if Hiro was the heaviest thing in the world, sprawled over him as it is.

Or it could be because his spine just met the gutter, who can say?

“Jesus!” Hiro exclaims; and in a flurry of motion, he attempts to rise. He’d like to say it’s an elegant disengage from the position they’ve found themselves in, but a grunt of pain tells him that yeah, his elbow certainly did meet mister ‘I-just-saved-you-from-your-impending-doom’s stomach. Twice. “Sorry, sorry! I’ll just-”

“No! No, hold still for a second! Let me-”

“No, I’ve got this, I can-”

“ _Ghh-_ Will you just _stop!?_ I need to check your head!”

“You need to check my head.” Hiro repeats blankly. They’re drawing a bit of a crowd, but that doesn’t seem to matter to mister no name. Holding Hiro round the waist, he sits up carefully, edging himself a little further off the road with teen in lap.

Checking his head, as it turns out, is lingo for feeling up his scalp, fingers carding through his hair in slow, careful motions as Hiro stares straight ahead and wonders about his life and choices. There is a vague possibility that this is a bad one.

“Uh, not for nothing here, but what are you doing?”

“I heard a crack; did you hit your head?” Mr no name is frowning, intent on his paternal duties. Or creepy duties, it’s really hard to say, at this point. “I don’t feel any lumps.”

“Oh, no, that was just my headphones.” Which are-- over there, actually. Leaning over, Hiro snatches them off the ground, holding them high for all to see.

“Right. Good, then. Good.” No name is visibly relieved; but still not letting him go, actually. That relief fades into something else, and Hiro gets the distinct feeling he’s being scrutinised, right down to the dorky gap in his teeth.

_And you sir, have freakishly large ears. What can you do?_

“You should be more careful.”

“Excuse me?” Hiro raises a brow, taking the initiative to stand. This time is much more successful than the first, giving him a good opportunity to dust himself off. He’s got grit in places grit shouldn’t be- and yes, mr no name, he can see the way his eyes follow his hands brushing over his ass. “I’m fine. See; no damage whatsoever. _You_ should’ve just-”

Oh good god.

In the adventure of dirt brushing, Hiro’s fingers meet his hoodie. Hanging over his shoulder, it feels...awkward. Off. Frantically twisting in an attempt to see it, he does a few little spins on the spot, eyes wide in disbelief at the very visible tear running across it. The tear where the seam should be meeting the back of his neck.

“Dude. _Dude, you ripped my hoodie!_ ”

“I just saved your life, and the first thing you say is I _ripped your hoodie?_ ” The man laughs, collecting himself off the ground and dusting his hands off- his hair is _not dirty,_ how dare he?! “ I must’ve pulled a little too hard on it; I’m sorry.”

“You think?!” _Unbelievable._ Hiro stares at him with utmost disbelief; he looks so _proud of himself. Proud!_ “This is my favorite hoodie, jackass! You ruined it!”

That wipes the amusement off his face pretty quick.

“You’re...joking, right?” No name asks, and Hiro’s lips purse into a thin line as he shakes his head, stamping his foot.

“You’re paying to fix it. Now.”

Silence. The two of them stares at each other, long and hard. Long enough for most of their bystanders to get bored and leave. Long enough that, when a voice explodes outwards, they gain a completely new one. The flow of the world is working rather nicely, today.

“You can’t be serious! _I saved your life!”_

“I am _dead serious!_ What’s the point in saving my life if you can’t even do that right?!”

“Oh my g-” No name’s hands cover his face, clearly stuck in some state of disbelief. And really, Hiro thinks, he should have expected this. You couldn’t just ruin the hood- _in the hood._ It’s practical, common sense. “This is not what I was expecting.”

“Oh yeah? And what were you expecting? Flowers? My first born?”

“Your phone number would’ve been nice…”

“My ph-” Oh.

 Oh.

  
  
  
  
  


 ...Oh.

 

Well that’s a bit different, yeah. Hiro’s mind runs through various scenarios, quite a few of them culminating in kicking no name fair in the crotch and running, if he’s honest with himself. It was kind of- a straight guy thing to think about, getting someone’s number after saving their life. Unless he didn’t mean what Hiro thought he meant? But then he looks pretty ashamed of himself, rubbing the back of his neck and staring off down the street, probably regretting ever taking the time to save Hiro’s dumb ass in the first place.

And really, he has a glorious ass. Why else would no name have looked earlier.

“Okay, sure.”

“Excuse me?”

“My number. And coffee.” Hiro holds a hand up, before no name gets a little too pleased with himself. “And a dry cleaner. So you can pay for my hoodie.”

“Unbelievable.” No name sighs, but the smile is back, and maybe, just a little, Hiro smiles too.

His name is Tadashi, and it turns out he’s a medical student, and a whole lot of things. But at the end of the day he’d always be the asshole who ripped his favorite hoodie first.


	2. Demon at Your Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s hungry.  
> He’s so hungry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was based on an incubus drawing frick-sticks-and-gay-chicks did during a stream. It was the first (and kind of the only, really) stream that I'd ever jumped in on of hers... and she was so nice in answering all my questions about her idea of what incubus!Tadashi would be like that I wrote this up in the hour I had before I had to run off. It was linked with the actual artwork which was mortifying and exhilarating and very terrifying; how is it that I haven't been attacked by anons yet? I don't know.
> 
> I'm still considering continuing it, but potentially not. I make very bad impressions on artists, oops.

* * *

 

 **Rating:** teen

 **Warnings:** none

* * *

 

 

The door to his holding room wasn’t fitted properly. It scrapped and groaned as it was physically hauled across the concrete, giving no added light or warmth to his humblest of abodes. It opened in an erratic stream of passing hours and days, to let in the rich, the influential, and the curious.

They all curled their noses upon stepping over the threshold. To his own sensitive tastebuds, it was a delicate torture; faecal matter dulled into an absent (but constant) tang on his tongue that had him withdrawing the appendage into his mouth more often than not, flickering between his lips upon occasion.

The prize jewel of the underground circus, displayed upon his throne of death and decay. He could taste their latent fears and growing sexual curiosities. His tail curves high in a mixture of disinterest and aggression, and they watch it all with their hidden desires and tell-tale beads of sweat.

Humans are disgusting; rotted within succulent meat suits. Everyday he’s put on display is simply another passage of time in which to catch the scents of each distinct individual, for the day he’s finally free.

Today should be no different. Looks now different, eyes surveying the grandiose opening of his door with utter boredom, in the process of cleaning off his fingers from yet another unsatisfying meal. Perhaps, after all this time, his instincts itch too much for the thrill of the hunt. The thrill of the kill. Perhaps he’s allowed himself to become saturated in the ennui that such captivity provides, deadly intelligence hibernating in conditions that allow him to survive, at the very least.

Until a boy steps through the door, and his interest is _peaked._

Sweetness in taste and form. The aromatic aroma that is exhibited by so few of his kind ( _virgin_ ) twists at his stomach until Tadashi draws himself upwards with nostrils flared.

He’s hungry.

He’s so hungry.

And in utter frustration, he watches the small, scrawny creature watch him right back, scents the typical chemical mixture his kind are only too prone to; nerves, fascination, the dark, heady tang of arousal. He wants him closer.

He wants him pulled against the bars, tense with the instinct to run, still with suddenness. He wants to see those eyes up close, capture the smallest of details. Run his tongue across his face and mark him in a manner that his kind doesn’t understand; a permanent claim to his body.

He’s hungry.

He’s so hungry.

The tiny creature looks at him, and Tadashi’s lips draw up over his fangs. Slowly, sedately, he runs his tongue over the curved claw of his index finger, and watches dark eyes follow every, single moment.

The human has fifteen minutes in the room with him; fifteen minutes, just like the rest of the insignificant stragglers who followed him in. Not for a second does either take their eyes from the form that’s captured them; one in fear and shameful lust. The other in _hunger_ , unending as time itself.

_“I sssmell you…”_

 

* * *

 

_You can find V and her beautiful artwork right over[here](http://frick-sticks-back-up.tumblr.com/)_


End file.
